


Kama Chameleon

by cheshirecatstrut, CMackenzie, SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14018190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMackenzie/pseuds/CMackenzie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: Logan's checked out a book and Veronica needs it, pronto. Shenanigans ensue.





	Kama Chameleon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllieBear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieBear/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for lovely individual EllieBear from the ladies of VMHQ.

Logan’s awakened when the knocking on his door escalates to pounding.

Fighting upward through clinging layers of unconsciousness, he thrashes free of the comforter and rolls to check the clock. It’s 3 AM. Flopping back onto his pillow with a groan, he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and hopes he’s not getting arrested again. He hasn’t done anything illegal lately, as far as he knows–but when has that ever stopped Don Lamb and his clown crew?

“Coming,” he calls hoarsely, stumbling out of bed. Grabs a pair of sweatpants and dons them on his way, so in case he IS arrested he won’t be doing the perp walk through the Grand’s lobby in his altogether. Flings open the door.

Adjusts his gaze downwards.

There’s a very short, very pretty blonde in front of him, fist raised imperiously, practically vibrating with the intensity that produced deafening knocks. She seems startled her efforts bore fruit; her gaze goes directly to his torso and lingers, entirely flattering, then drifts up, considering, to his face.

“You’re Logan Echolls, right?” Her eyes narrow as she studies his no-doubt sleep-slack features. “Your face is rounder in all the pictures. Listen, I hate to be THAT stranger, but you’ve got a book I need in there somewhere, and I don’t have time to charm it out of you.”

“Book?” he asks, sleepily bemused, running a hand through his hair. But she’s already shoved past him into his suite. With a sarcastic arm wave he adds, “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

“Sanskrit dictionary,” she condescends to elaborate, scanning tabletops and counters before beginning to open drawers. “You checked it out, it’s due tomorrow, and I need to see it BEFORE it’s returned to the library.”

A fierce line of focus appears between her brows, and when she gets down on all fours to look under the couch, he has an unimpeded view of her spectacular jeans-clad ass. Certain parts of him wake right up, and his mood lifts.

“Oh, THAT book,” he says, just to mess with her. “I don’t have a clue what happened to it—I was planning to pay the replacement cost and have done. As I recall, at one point, my roommate was using it to play Frisbee.”

“To play WHAT?” she bounces upright, and the pissed-off, slightly-cross-eyed kitten face she makes is adorable. “THIS is how 09’ers treat school property? Ugh, no wonder you have a bad internet reputation.” She turns in a slow circle, thinking. “Was he playing Frisbee inside this suite? Is that why one of the lamps is missing?”

Logan lifts his brows—she’s pretty observant. “Well, Dick did break the lamp,” he admits. “But not with the book in question. He threw a quart bottle of Mountain Dew at it when I beat him at Madden NFL.”

Rolling her eyes, the blonde pushes her way into his bedroom like she owns the place. He follows, sense of the ridiculous tickled.

“What kind of idiot lives in a hotel penthouse, anyway?” she demands, checking behind the photos on his dresser. “And takes three classes per semester, none in the morning? And doesn’t even have a job?”

“The rich kind.” He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms. “Not to toot my own horn.” He watches her open the nightstand drawer, get a load of the economy-size box of Livin’ Large, and shut it quickly, face pink. Smirks. Snarky, cute and aggressive is his favorite combination of girl traits, but the ability to still blush is definitely a plus.

“Overcompensating for something?” she asks, with a trace of defensiveness, and the smirk turns into a grin.

“What kind of person breaks into a stranger’s room at 3 AM,” he counters, because the best defense, etc. “Looking for a Sanskrit book literally no one else has ever checked out? And probably never WILL check out, in years to come?”

“A detective.” She peers under his mattress. “With a waitress client who was fired, then threatened with jail, for stealing credit card numbers. I need that book to prove she didn’t do it.”

“Okaaaay,” Logan says, because she’s making literally no sense. He chooses a t-shirt from his drawer at random and tugs it on. “I’m making myself a cup of coffee, you want some? Or can I order you some room service while you trash my suite?”

The girl straightens, finally realizing, maybe, that what she’s doing isn’t kosher. Looks faintly embarrassed for a fraction of a second before continuing to do it. “Fine,” she says, ignoring his offer. “I guess you deserve an explanation. My client didn’t take the credit card numbers, but I surveilled one of her coworkers, so I know he did. Swiped each card through the imprinter twice, then kept a copy. But he hasn’t spent any money himself—no package deliveries, no shopping sprees. So it took me forever to figure out what he was doing with the duplicates.”

He waits for her to continue, but she’s engrossed with the contents of his bedroom trash can, and looking likely to dump them on the carpet. “Your book wouldn’t even fit in here,” he says, gently taking the can away. “And I’d rather you don’t make the kind of mess that requires rug shampoo.”

“Why not? You have maid service.” She gives his dresser drawers and closet a quick inspection, then returns to the living room. “It’s not like you’d get on your knees and scrub out stains yourself.”

He follows, then crosses to the coffee maker; yawning, begins to brew espresso. “So what WAS Evil Waiter doing with the copies?” he asks as she begins removing couch cushions, curious in spite of himself.

“That was the part that stumped me.” She checks, for some reason, behind the TV. “He never goes anywhere but work, home, school and the library. So I finally followed him to class, which is when I hit pay dirt—got a picture of him turning in homework with a string of numbers written along the bottom. And his professor SMILED as he read the page, meaning the guy’s an accomplice.”

“Which professor?” Logan blows on his coffee to cool it before taking a cautious sip.

“Oh, um, Professor Blatavsky?” She opens and peeks inside the fridge. “Socioeconomic problems of third-world countries?”

“Wow,” Logan says, because Professor Blatavsky is seventy-five if he’s a day, the kind of rotund, cheerful career academic nobody would suspect of chicanery. “The world really IS a terrible place.”

“Right?” she checks the cabinets by his feet, forcing him to scoot over. “Anyway, after that discovery I switched my tail to Blatavsky, and what would you know? Directly after class, he headed right for the same library where Evil Waiter Brad always goes.”

Spotting Logan’s backpack by the end table, she scurries over to open it up. Removes a large book with an elated, “Aha! Sanskrit!” Then promptly turns pink again and shoves it back.

“Yeah, that one’s mine.” Logan hides his smile in his coffee. “Illustrated Kama Sutra, gift from a…friend. It’s why I checked your dictionary out— to look up some terminology.”

“Interesting friends you have.” She’s not so cowed she neglects to check the front pocket. “With or without translation, the variations should keep you two occupied for a year.”

“Not so much,” he says, with a shrug. “That particular friend turned out to be fatally UN-interesting. I’m currently in the market for another co-reader…maybe you’re interested in academic exploration?”

“You wish,” she says, and heads into Dick’s room, uttering a loud, “YUCK!” before beginning to search.

He follows, leaning once again on the doorframe as she kicks aside piles of dirty laundry. “Anyway,” she continues, “Blatavsky spent some time fruitlessly wandering the Ancient Languages section before heading to the front desk. He gave the librarian a Dewey Decimal number and I realized…that’s what Brad wrote on his homework. A Dewey code. When the librarian told him the book was checked out, he pitched a fit, demanding to know who had it.”

“I hope she didn’t tell him,” Logan says. “Or you might not be my only visitor this evening. Although, while I’m not a hundred percent sure about you, Professor Blatavsky I could take.”

“No, the librarian in question was a rule-follower.” She makes a face, as if this quality is undesirable. “But she told him it was due tomorrow, and he should check back then. Hence my urgency about beating him to the punch.”

She glances at him, but he doesn’t reply, wanting to see what she’ll do next. Which proves to be opening Dick’s drawers.

“So as you can imagine,” she continues, “I tried to wheedle your name out of her once he left, but she wouldn’t budge. I was therefore forced to break into the library after closing hours with a friend of mine who’s…let’s say tech-savvy. She was able to hack into the front desk’s computer and find you.”

“Clever,” he says, impressed, despite himself, by her tenacity. “But I’m still not getting how you tracked me here? I’m fairly popular with the tabloids, so the concierge knows better than to tell people my room number.”

“Well, I probably could have found you with a good old-fashioned private-investigator ground game,” she says, “Given sufficient time. But as it happens, my friend knew you, and so did Google. Apparently you’re famous, and her roommate’s attended numerous parties in your suite. If I were you, hot stuff, I’d upgrade my security measures; your whereabouts are common knowledge on the Hearst campus.”

“Great,” he says, grimacing, and downs the rest of his coffee. “Time to move. Again.”

“So that’s the sum total,” she says. “My friend went home to sleep, I came here. I’m pretty confident though, at this point, that the book’s not in this suite. So I guess I’ll just apologize for intruding, take you up on a quick espresso, and then start working on Plan B. Unless you have any helpful ideas?”

He returns to the kitchen and sets a cup to brewing; she follows. “Well, my first thought is, your bad guy watches WAY too many spy movies, because this plan seems unnecessarily elaborate. I mean, is he stealing credit card numbers for better grades? Although I guess it DOES beat sleeping with the teacher…Blatavsky isn’t the type to inspire lust in student hearts.”

“Not THAT kind of idea,” she chides, favoring him with a reluctant smile as she accepts her coffee. She leans against the cabinet beside him to drink it, and he discovers she smells good, like white flowers and burnt sugar. “I meant, any thoughts about where the book might be?”

“Well it MIGHT be in a duffle bag in my car,” he admits, trying not to spoil his grave tone by smirking. “Because I was reading it at the beach the other day, while I waited for my friends to show up and surf.”

“Oh, it might, huh?” she sets her empty cup down with a clack, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you TELL me?”

He shrugs, arranging his features into their most innocent configuration. “Well, I hesitate to point this out,” he says. “But you didn’t ASK. I wanted to see whether you would. Or, you know, apologize at any point, instead of just stomping around like a very small SWAT team member, making a mess.”

She exhales through her teeth. “Are you always this obstinate and twisty?”

He smiles. “Are you always a Little Engine That Could on crack?”

The sharp laugh this elicits surprises him, and just like that, Logan falls headlong into a crush. “I prefer to think of myself as determined.”

“How about I get my keys?” He smiles down into her extremely blue eyes, while she looks back at him like he’s somehow frozen her. “Unless you wanted to stay and poke around in my personal effects some more?”

She shakes her head, saying, “Frankly, they weren’t that interesting.” He laughs, and leads her down to the garage.

“I don’t know,” he says in the elevator, fixing his gaze on her again, and noting that once again, she acts hypnotized. “You seemed a little interested in the rubbers. And the Kama Sutra. And my chest, not necessarily in that order.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She licks her lips. “We only just met.”

“Yes, but all participants in grand romances have to meet somewhere, sometime,” he argues, as they wander out into the dark garage side-by-side. He presses his key fob, lights flash, and he leads her to his crookedly-parked car.

“A Range Rover,” she says flatly, as he opens the rear door. “Wow, you really are the most conspicuous of consumers.”

“Hey, it’s black,” he protests. “Conservative, even. And I actually NEED an all-terrain vehicle with lots of interior room.”

Fishing the book out of the duffel, he presents it with a flourish. She makes quick and efficient work of searching it. Pulls a folded receipt from behind the card in the checkout pocket, on which one, and only one, return date is stamped.

“Bingo.” Her gaze sharpens and grows slightly feral. “Gotcha Blatavsky, you asshole.” Then, lifting her extremely-intense face towards Logan’s, adds, “If you’ll just turn in this book tomorrow—well, today—at an agreed-upon time, I’ll be waiting to take pictures of him finding the receipt. Then my unfortunate client can get another job, without fear of the law descending, and someone more guilty can go to jail.”

“Deal,” he says. “If, afterwards, you let me take you out for coffee. No strings,” he adds, as she seems to hesitate. “Just coffee. At which point, maybe I’ll actually learn your name, and something about you besides the fact that you’re a detective. A tenacious one.”

Handing the book back, she studies him for a minute. “Deal,” she says. “By then I’ll really need caffeine. Shall we say the Hearst Library at 11:00?”

“I’ll be there.” He winks, tucking the book under his arm. “Bathed, for a change, and wearing clothes I didn’t pick up off the floor.”

“My heart’s all aflutter.” She starts to stride off, turns, and favors him with the kind of perfect-toothed grin that belongs in a magazine. “And by the way, my name’s Veronica. Veronica Mars.”

_Suits you_ , he thinks, watching one of the nicest asses he’s seen in years swivel as she walks confidently away. And, with a skip to his step, heads back upstairs, considering as he goes how to best charm her into lunch.


End file.
